


then the reprieve

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Headspace, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Magic, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: As he lays dying, Eliot remembers.To start, childhood. What was it like to be you, Eliot? What made you?I made me.No, before, the small things. What did you forget about Indiana?





	then the reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you feel a little weird and sad and need to write something kind of weird and sad.
> 
> this fic touches on various points throughout eliot's life and has brief references to: child abuse/family violence, consensual sexual experiences, drug/alcohol abuse, overdose, and hospitalization. it's all intentionally fleeting but very much present; please take care of yourself.
> 
> to be clear, though, eliot does not die.

There were spells for forgetting and their lesser siblings that were rarely recalled: those to remember, in every detail. 

Eliot wanted to remember.

The spells carried with them their risks. Like an amnesia spell could become permanent, so too could a remembrance spell. Its target risked getting lost forever, trapped like a cuckoo in a clock, running round and round until eventually, no one wound it anymore.

Still, he begged.

I’ve spent my whole life running away. I want to remember now, he told Margo. I want this. I'm owed.

She held his hand and frowned. Her skin wasn’t very warm.

I love him, you know.

I know, she said.

I have nowhere to put it now. I'm afraid that if I don't remember, I'll die. That all of my love will eat me up until I'm gone.

She nodded. He was glad to be understood.

You're dying anyway, El, she said, and released his hand. She touched his forehead, tapped a pattern out across it. I'll try.

A fog over them, thick and viscous magic.

To start, childhood. What was it like to be you, Eliot? What made you?

I made me.

No, before, the small things. What did you forget about Indiana?

The orange ribbons above his bed:

BEST IN SHOW  
Rabbit Division  
Purdue Extension  
2003

2004

2006

Thick polyester, woven with gold thread. He remembered that he had stopped raising the animals as soon as he knew he would leave. But he had been good at it. Faint touch of soft fur, smell of hay, wet wood. The clang of wire cages, the din of judges and children in big, old barns. A child with dark hair, plaid shirt and jeans, tucked in, leather boots.

You were a quiet kid, Margo observed.

And after, home.

The comforter he slept under, age 8 to 14. Rough navy blue cotton, covered in stars and moons that glowed in the dark for the first year and then faded. Flannel sheets in winter that he sweat through in adolescence. His room, the humid hum of the window unit.

The smell of meatloaf, the sugar-acid scent of the ketchup he squeezed on it. Dinnertime, then. White plates with sky-blue rims that his mother loved. The kitchen was wood-paneled and dark in a way that Eliot learned to avoid. The lights yellow, too yellow, melted butter dripping over everything.

His mother's voice. Tinkling like a wind chime through the house. The way she said his name, the soft _L_ on her hard palate, the click of the _T_. It was such a specific sound, so particular in the folds of his memories. He had not heard her voice in almost fifteen years. 

Do you remember who named you? Who chose it? Margo asked.

He did, when he crowned me.

The cold feeling of silverware in his hand, the old set, inherited from grandparents or older. 

I love him so much.

I know.

His mother’s voice again, far off. A cruel, delicate sound underneath his father’s yelling. His father’s voice, his mother’s name; his mother’s voice, his own name.

Your mother’s name is Annie?

I don’t want to remember this part, he said. The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, doors slamming, glass breaking. An instinctual twist of fear in his gut.

I’m not sure you have a choice. I think it might be important.

It’s not. I promise. Just because it hurt doesn’t mean it mattered.

If you think so, she said.

Help me remember better things. I need to be prepared.

Margo touched his wrist, traced his veins. Somewhere, magic coursed through him.

His bedroom, still. Nighttime, half a moon or more. His room was on the second floor but it sat over the porch, easy to sneak out. The rustle of leaves, late spring blossoms falling. The window open a crack, curtains left fluttering. By then the cosmic comforter was gone, replaced with simple blue and white striped bedding.

Eliot smiled. This was happy, he said. Let’s go.

Sitting under the poplars out past the fields. Soy was quiet, not like the gangly wheat stalks that brushed up against one another. The sound of crickets, summer song of them on the wind.

There I am, you see? This is important. I learned to love here.

In the dark, two shadows. One of them, Eliot, sixteen or so. He was all elbows and knees, beginning his last or almost-last growth spurt.

Who is that? Margo asked.

His name is Daniel, Eliot said. He held my hand at a pep rally. He was sweet.

Warm skin, then. Soft lips. The thrill of firsts, of what it felt like to pull a boy on top of him in the dirt. The feeling of hands on his belly, under his back. The suckerpunch of arousal, affection.

He’s still holding your hand.

He taught me to be loved.

Sighs, the tickle of Daniel’s long hair against his ear. The way he had cupped Eliot’s face, hadn’t been ashamed, just flush with the newness of it all.

It's time to go, Eliot.

I think you’re right.

They left them there, under the poplars, under the crickets, under each other’s hands.

What comes next?

She looked at him in a distant, piteous way.

The night you left.

She was right. He hadn’t told his parents he was leaving, crept out. Careful of wooden floors, the creaks inevitable anyway. Squeaking hinges, bacon grease smell in the air.

Why did you run away?

I didn't have a choice. They wouldn’t have let me go. I would have died here.

Margo nodded. They watched as he bent down below the windows before he broke into a full sprint toward the road, gravel crunching under his feet. Moonlight on his shoulders, bag bouncing on his hip.

Where are you going?

I'll walk til dawn and hitchhike to Cincinnati, where I'll get on a bus to New York.

She smiled at him. How did it feel to cross the state line?

Free. Look at me, look how young I am.

Eighteen year old Eliot, full height now but skinny, thin-shouldered, haircut like a boot camp. His coat baggy, fashionable but secondhand. By morning one of his soles would be peeling off.

Margo leaned against him without weight. Daylight cast over them and then the smell of diesel, the sound of a pickup truck burning down the road. The driver was nice, Eliot remembered; later, the bus would not be so nice.

What happened when you got to New York?

I bounced around for a few weeks, until classes started. I had a friend, from a message board. She let me sleep on her couch.

Is that her?

Tall, imposing. Long, dark hair. Shirt buttoned to the throat. Apartment smelling of mildew but only just so. Clang of old pipes, creak of floorboards under the neighbors’ feet.

Yes. Her name is Jane.

Is this a good memory?

I think so. She was kind to me. She taught me about punk music.

Posters on the wall, then, black and white, CBGB, peeling wheat paste. Beer bottles clinking together in a black trash bag. Eliot, hair already growing long enough to curl, asleep on an old couch. The feeling of corduroy and denim. Summer heat, the smell of sweat and dumpsters wafting up from the street. Ambulances, fire trucks, sirens.

I was so happy here, Margo. It felt so quiet. 

Does this feel important? she asked.

A little. It was short but it was good.

A pause, then. Margo’s wide eyes, arched brows.

Are you ready to go?

The next part, Margo. I’m afraid.

It’s okay. It’s already over.

I wasn’t ready to be on my own.

The first and second year of college, almost forgotten. Loneliness. Parties, discomfort. Loud music, crowded houses. Forgotten books strewn across the floor.

_Where are you from?_

_Nowhere._

Kegs, wine bottles. The mouths of strangers, moonlit. Over and over, dirty sheets, thick smoke. Damp skin, sweat, pungent smell of working bodies.

What are their names?

I don't remember.

A different night. Pit in his stomach, fill it with liquor. A handful of pills. Dizzy, drowning, lights haloed and spinning.

The smell of bleach, piss, vomit. Tears on skin, salt-dried. Curled up, long legs, bent knees on a narrow bed. Fluorescent lights, the drip of an IV.

An empty armchair. Wheel of Fortune, blue glow. Sickly sweet peaches on a plastic tray.

This hurts, he said.

I know. Is it important?

Yes. But not in the same way. It undid me. After this I made myself.

So what comes after? Margo asked.

Gossamer over everything. Classes, textbooks, lab time. Still too much alcohol, enough to keep from withdrawal. A flask in every bag.

How did you survive?

I didn't have a choice.

Above everything, longing. Craving. Home, home, home. A heavy helplessness. All nighters, a little drunk. White bread and Top Ramen. A few jobs: coffee shops, bars, shelving books. Saving money, new clothes. A fascination with the past, what came before him. Linen, wool. Leather and new patterns emerging. Haircut, long curls for the first time.

Are you making yourself?

I am, Eliot said. 

Paperwork, filed, a judge. A new last name. Fake it til you make it.

Here it comes, Margo said. We're almost there.

Magic everywhere, thick as honey. The full body relief of belonging. Paper rustling, stale air of the auditorium. Ink flowing like water. Doubt, assurance, relief.

After. 

_I'm Margo._

_Eliot. Eliot Waugh._

Tongue tingling with his chosen name. Flush of cementing identity, the chance to be new, to be whole on his own terms. 

Old wood, wax. Heavy curtains, smoke and sandalwood. A gold-plated bar cart, steel shaker, whiskey, gin. Acerbic smell, bitters, herbs. Campari, Chambord. Warm skin as he handed off drinks, light touches, flirtation.

You were so impressive, you know, Margo said.

Ice crashing into glasses. Velvet, paisley, silk. New cologne. Margo pressed up against him, warm weight of her in his lap, smooth skin, floral scent of her. Polished wood, music gentle underneath everything.

A boy, red hair, standing in front of him, smiling. Rush of power, a realization: people see him differently now. Curve of a smile, hips canted. Cultivated confidence. People want him.

We'd been there two weeks and you'd already fucked half the class.

Eliot smiled. No, just the one. He was a sweet kid. None of this is important, though.

So what is, then?

Bright sunlight, warm on his skin. Smoke curling. Hard stone under his back. Grass, freshly mowed. Late summer breeze caught in his curls. Affected nonchalance. It’s effortful, still, it will never be easy.

Rustling fabric, footsteps approaching.

_Quentin Coldwater?_

This is important, Margo.

I know.

I need to remember him.

You will, she said.

Those first few weeks, from across the room. Tangled hands, lank hair. Pang of desire, recognition. Something radiant drawing him in. Worn flannel, holes at the knees. An urgent desire to protect, to hold. 

I thought he felt like home.

Margo smiled.

Familiarity without fear. Ease, comfort.

Everything here is so important. Please, Margo, I think I’m running out of time.

Okay, she said. Okay. Which part is most important?

Another touch, the back of his neck this time. Fuzz of magic through his spine.

Fleeting images of shoulders, freckled in the sun. Smell of ripe fruit, soil. Rain in the distance. Magic almost tangible, like mist. Symphony of insects, crickets maybe, impossible to be sure.

This. This part.

_Happy anniversary, Q._

Tender touch, bolt of surprise. A feeling in his chest, unfamiliar and tight. Want, want, need. The warmth of his mouth, the slide of it, an urge to weep, almost. Skin in firelight, glowing, new. The scent of him, novel but known.

I wanted this so badly.

Margo nodded. I know.

Everything that came after, stretched out in front of him like an old film reel. The sensation of falling, images blurring. A woman’s voice, a child’s. Old memories inverted into something bright. Snow, rain, sun. Years and years, the memories fading together, all watercolor and bleeding. Skin under his hands, soft lips, gentle pressure. The fights, the doubt, the anger. Voices loud, never cruel. And underneath, above everything. The love. Life transformed from a series of images, moving, always moving, into constant pulse of feeling. 

I can’t hold the spell. We have to go back.

Please, just a little longer. I’m dying, out there. In here I am loved.

You’re loved, Eliot, you’re loved. And he’s here. You have to come back.

Her hands, tight around his wrists as though she might physically pull him back, back out, back to life.

Who is?

Electricity through his body, desperate and vibrant hope.

Quentin. He’s here. Come back with me.

Oh.

Astringent smells, first. Fluorescents again. Rough cotton and polyester, eyes barely open. A hand warm in his. Voice a little giddy, then, almost unable to form words. The hand, there, so warm, so alive. Salt of tears, relief, sudden, overwhelming.

_El, I think this might be important._


End file.
